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Anything can
look like a poem
and sound philosophical
simply by moving
the words on
different lines.

Am I doing it right?
Is this
really
talent?
Art?
Effort?

I think I am trying.
Really, I am
I go back and change the order
and I break lines
where it sounds right
But it does not take me long.
Not at all.

I try to be
intentional
and call it natural rhythm.
Instinct and style taking over
I alternate between
agonizing every detail
like When to Capitalize
and publishing free form poems without looking over them twice.

How is writing supposed to feel?
Should I labor?
or should it flow?
Or do I get to decide?

I think the things I talk of
mean something
at least.

But am I just
pretentious?

fooling myself into thinking that
using common poetry formats
somehow makes my work worthwhile?
Problems only We True Artists face.
 Apr 2018 Shaylie Pryer
Graff1980
I expel
thin wisps
of cold wind,
smoking breath
that looks like
cigarette vapors.

**** its cold.

I nearly slip
on the black ice
in the parking lot
late at night
cause I can’t
make it out.

**** its cold.

Fingers frosted
till they start to
turn from flesh tones
to a red pinkish hue,
then almost to
a light blue.

**** its cold.

Ears hurt,
and so, does
my chest
when I cough.
I try to sleep it off,
but the sidewalk
is bitterly unforgiving.

**** its cold.

No one ever
looks me in the eyes.
They just walk on by;
Too busy pretending
not to see
my pain
and humanity.
They don’t
drops single thought
or dollar for me.
  
**** its cold.

No one notices
the frozen form
of frostbit terror
and tragedy,
as empty eyes
stare out at
a world
that is colder
than the arctic circle.
 Aug 2016 Shaylie Pryer
Graff1980
You can take my home
repossess my car
steal my cell phone
and break my heart
take my pad of paper
but I would just
put the pen to my skin
or memorize the verses for later.
You can’t stop me
from making sweet poetry.
 May 2016 Shaylie Pryer
Graff1980
These soft and hard hands
Beautiful and strong
Small and large
The same hands that held babies
Herded sheep
Softly stroked the heads of pets
Carried crops from the field
Wove cloth from wool
Formed pots from earth
Drenched the dry fires
Held spears, swords, and shields
In defense and for war
Hunted for food
Tickled newborn babes
Carefully cradling their heads
Against their bare breast
So it may suckle
Hugged a crying child
Reprimanded wrong doings
Raised a family
Folded cloths
Cut coupons
Drove kids to school
Wiped tears from strangers eyes
Massaged stress from a body
Satisfied ****** desires
Carried all she had to safer ground
Miles away from her home
Wrote poems, painted pictures
Snapped photos, posted prose
Clenched in outrage
Fought to protect her loved ones
Held high signs of resistance
These hands have shaped the world
 May 2016 Shaylie Pryer
Graff1980
Don't let the lightning steal your thunder
Or the stars dull your light
You may not be destined for greatness
But that is up to you to decide
You can let it slide just get by
Get taken on a crazy trip
Or be the one who takes everyone
On a beautifully strange and wild ride
 Apr 2016 Shaylie Pryer
Graff1980
They paired us
In Paris

Dreamed up
Things to scare us

But the poets
Left for France
Because they could
Afford it

If I could have been
Gone with them
They would not have
To expatriate me

No need to separate me
From this American family
Of consumerism and greed

I would have preferred
To be in love in Paris
 Apr 2016 Shaylie Pryer
Graff1980
Time stretches the stars
Till the heart find their scars
Have become space time
Stretch marks
 Apr 2016 Shaylie Pryer
Emma
SPARE SOME CHANGE
COLD, NEED FOOD
The desperation was clear in the man's writing
On the crumpled trashcan cardboard
You saw him laying there on the cold concrete
In the frosty graffiti street
Against the worn down door
His unshaven face looked up
His wide eyes pleaded
And you looked away

Look away, look away
The stone angels cannot follow
The concrete terror
Can be forgotten
Others will take the stage
You never had the courage
To make a change

*So look away
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